


Bout On The River

by Jane_K_Livingston



Category: Rammstein
Genre: 90'S, Angst with a Happy Ending, Band History, Bromance, Eventual Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly Gen, POV First Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Real people as fiction characters, Road Trips, Romance, Slow Burn, Team as Family, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, alternative universe, but only in the beginning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 16:04:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19890574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane_K_Livingston/pseuds/Jane_K_Livingston
Summary: Michael Jackson was still alive, nobody knew the name of Quentin Tarantino, and Harry Potter wasn't born yet. It was 1994th and I decided to form a band.OR: a story of band from the begging to present days, full of music, road trips, nostalgia and first love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovies! In the beginning, I'd like to say, that none of characters/real people/songs belong to me. This story is completely made up, although I tried to stick to the facts. Also this is my first fanfic in English, and I'm terribly sorry for all mistakes you can probably find here.

The sky was deep blue. Hidden by the smoke from the chimney stacks, it seemed to be the ballast hanging over the city. Behind the roofs of the factories there was barely a brass glint of the rising sun. I came into my shabby flat. There was a rattle of metal and a hollow wooden knock. With this sound the entrance door opened each time. The old clock in the kitchen struck four; the sun was about to rise. Having stayed in a studio, I came later than usual.

In those years I was living in a rented apartment in Kreuzberg, a criminal and poor district; then he was still considered as independent district of Berlin. And although the civil strife about the spring demonstrations had already received wide publicity, ordinary people talked about this place rarely and reluctantly. My house was at the intersection of two streets; the north side looked out onto Victoria Park, the west side onto the narrow Havel tributary between the rows of houses and the paper mill. By the way, this factory provided work for a good half of the district. After the elections in 2005, the brick buildings in the early industrial style was restructured into loft apartments, the poor district gained popularity in artistic circles, the Turkish and Chinese diaspora changed to the bohemian elite. But twenty-five years ago everything was completely different.

I remember when I first arrived in East Berlin I had so little money that had to spend the night in the most unexpected places: at the train station, in the night city bus, in the subway car. Once I came across a paper advertisement on a lamppost: a certain Frau Stoss rented an apartment on the cheap. And let the housing cost me more than the declared price (I spent my first salary on a means of cockroaches and rat), I finally had a roof over my head and at least some hope for a successful future. In addition, my landlord was an understanding woman and did't object to nightly rehearsals. As it turned out, at the age of forty-two she worked as a prostitute, so she did't even hear any music, staying in the beds of unfamiliar men until the morning.

One way or another, then I was very grateful to her: the poor activity of "Orgasm Death Gimmick" was my main, if not the only, mean of earning. All months long I was sitting over the lyrics in my squalid apartment with faded yellow wallpaper. Now I remember that apartment with pleasant nostalgia in my heart: a forged bed with bronze legs, a gas stove in a tiny kitchen, calico curtains matching the dusty upholstery of the chairs. There were no mirrors, no gilding, not even a piece of glass reflecting light. Perhaps the only value was an old oak clock with a pendulum. The whole interior, all the furniture and even the wallpaper seemed to belong to different eras, and in the last turn - to the present. Sometimes I thought to bring it all in a proper form, but I immediately dismissed it, too busy for worldly tasks. I was spending all the money on music. Whether it were special sheets for music, some guitar strings or a studio rental...

Since childhood, I has been obsessed with American culture, and like any other boy from a small town, was eager to realize the words of James Adams, this damned “American Dream”. For some reasons it seemed to me that I'd deserved better, that the world scene was waiting for me. “Look, notice, appreciate my talent,” I shouted in each of my deeds, and only now, looking back, I understand what a fool I was. What was the probability that I, a graduate of a modest jazz school, had a great fate? But then, in July ninety-five, I craved recognition. I passionately wanted fame, wealth, fans, who would pilgrims flocked to my wretched apartment after my tragic death. "And here, dear tourists, Richard Zven Kruspe wrote a song that later elevated him to the rank of John Lennon." Oh, what a song it would be! It would raise people to the barricades, fill hearts with faith and love, and girls, these warm, life-shimmering and blissful creatures would cast tears of joy and despair. And the more I plunged into the world of my fantasies, the closer this stellar success seemed to me.

But the song still did't turn out, and along with my childish discontent with life my doubts also grew. For some mysterious reasons, I doubted anyone or anything but myself. I did not like the style, direction, or texts that we carried under our banners, and the further we went from the intended plan, the more impatient I became. There is one Polish saying that only a bad artist would complain about his brushes. So I, being naive and stupid, put all the blame on Martin and Sasha, on the vocalists and the manager, on the insufficiently expensive guitar and the blinking light in the bedroom, which obviously distracted me from writing. However, I was not an artist. I was a kid throwing cubes and crumbling sandcastles when someone questioned the rules of my game. And in my hands, any guitar played just as well as many efforts I put in.

That early morning, when I returned home later than usual, Stoss was still at work. At any other time, she would come down to check why I spread such a noise. I remember falling on the ugly green chair in the living room; a faceted glass of cold water habitually lay in my hand; a slanting beam of light filled the room with a golden glow. I was laughing for a long time. Martin's words were still fresh in my head, and I resurrected them again and again in my memory. “It's foolish to make music the meaning of your life! It has never lead to anything good, not someone like you or me, Richard... ". The tired face of my friend, his tightly pursed lips, a deep crease in the corners of his eyes. Then I felt miserable and betrayed, and the more I thought about it, the more desperately I felt like a victim. People generally fond of feeling sorry for themselves. A similar feeling overtook me at night in a thunderstorm at the foot of the Alps, when standing under the leaking roof of a gas station I dreamed about how good it would be to be in Berlin or, say, Nuremberg, where there is no howling wind and rain, and this kilometer-long, piercing to the bones solitude.

And yet those words became the most significant in my life. It was after them that I gave myself a sacred, near-religious oath: either I will form the last group in my life and succeed with it, or, in case of failure, I will forget about music forever.


	2. Chapter 2

For a while I was sitting in the living room, thinking over my musical career. The whole room was riddled with sunshine and dust, and I felt freezing draft from the open window. The thick aroma of baked apples and meat was standing in the air. By the way, house, which became my shelter in the middle of nineties, had been built immediately after the war. In such precarious and improvised constructions the walls were as thin and fragile. If someone on the first floor was cooking dinner, everyone knew the exact menu. At such moments, loneliness, which became unbearable at the sound of children's laughter and the clang of tableware, was especially hard on me. It is surprising how sometimes an impatient and irresponsible boy as me lacked simple human warmth. My childhood years came at a strange time: in the seventies seat belts, bicycle helmets and proper nutrition were not yet invented. We, boys and girls of those years, often grew without the attention of fathers and our mothers' supportive love; I have never had any illusions about marriage and children. So when I realised that something in my rebellious nature has always been drawn to the simple family life in a country house with a white fence, it felt especially strange. But it happened much later. At twenty-eight I was interested only in music

Outside, a downpour began. Small drops were hitting the glass, as if trying to get inside, but crashing, falling down. The sun was no longer visible, but with some inner feeling, I realized that the hail was getting stronger from hour to hour. The wind was getting hard; a half-empty soda can fell from the dresser. I heard how streams of water from rain gutters were plunging into muddy puddles, how light music was playing just two steps across the corridor, and how the pigeons were rustling their wings right under the roof. Pouring water into the sink and putting the glass in the dryer, I slammed the window flap. Outside the window rustled Victoria Park. Everything is as usual, I thought.

It still amazes me how the perception of the world changes over the years, and how the same things are overgrown with new and new associations. Now the rebellious sea of green trees brings back the memory of spending the night in a car in the middle of the forest. I remember how we pressed close to each other, how we shared the cozy and cramped rear seats, how embarrassed we were looking for someone else’s hand under the blanket to drown out the primitive fear of the natural element. And how I spent the whole night guarding my beloved's dream and inhaling his smell, burying in soft blond hair at the back of his head. And in the morning, when the sun knocked on the misted windows, I could't tear myself away from the only desired heat. When a meaning appears in your life, every thought somehow comes down to it.

Then I thought only about how sad my fate was in recent months. Having finished several albums, we froze in place, unable to move further. Creative crisis, dead end, sleep paralysis. I was exhausted and tensed to such an extent that I had already started planning a vacation. My friend Till Lindemann had written me a letter from Leipzig, in which he had persistently urged me to visit him and spend the remaining summer months together. He swore that he could get me a simple part-time job, so I can return by September with the money and hold out at least until the release of the fourth album. I answered reluctantly, but somehow it turned out he was expecting for me in a week. In the end, he finally bribed me, assuring that he would be busy himself, while I would remain left to myself. Till was my old friend. From the very beginning of our acquaintance, he seemed crazy to me - and in fact then I still did not know how much - and we quickly found a common language

The front door clanked; the lead knob hit the wall, and I involuntarily stiffened.

"Hey, Richard," said someone from the corridor. "Are you here?"

I immediately recognized Schneider's voice, and my heart became calmer. Recently, financial need has become particularly tight, and I had to find neighbors in the person of Berlin friends: Ollivera Riedel and Christopher Schneider, who were also experienced in music and as poor as I was. Each of them played in a group, and that was all I knew about them. Composing the rhythm section, they even sometimes rehearsed together, and let it happen quite rarely, even then it was difficult not to notice the unique chemistry that had arisen between them on the very day when both appeared on the threshold of my house. A quiet bass player by nature, Olli was silent most of the time, which is why I has always felt uncomfortable in his company. Schneider could understand him without words.

"Yea," I cleared my throat, looking at him. "How are you, by the way? Something happened in the state of Schneider or... as usual?"

For a few seconds he was thinking over my words, apparently missing the joke. 

"I wish I had something new in my life, but, okay, look around, it's still Berlin," he mumbled, finally closing the front door with a key and putting gloves in his coat pocket. While he was standing in the hallway, pondering over the answer, a muddy puddle of water fell on the floor. Dirt from shoes stained the Turkish carpet.

"So, are you busy now or something?"

"What do you mean?" Christoph came into the kitchen and smiled me over his shoulder. "Wanna take me to the date?"

"God, you're gross," I went after him, taking a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from my pockets on the way. In fact, I've never liked smoking and did it more for the sake of appearance, stretching soft package of Lucky Strike for two or three months. With age this habit disappeared altogether, but I still remember how I was dragging on: short and clumsy. "I was just wondering about your band. Are you still in that Feeling..."

"B," the drummer prompted, pulling out the Chinese chicken I'd recently bought. "By the way, I would't refuse to be paid for somewhere, you know? Bring me to the Ritz as one of your French ladies."

“Yes, Feeling B,” I repeated dutifully. "And this, by the way, in England."

"Can I?" for the sake of decency asked Schneider, pointing at the plate, wrapped in foil.

I just nodded and exhaled smoke into the ceiling; for a moment, the yellow light of a lamp faded into gray streams, and the room was filled with the characteristic aroma of strong tobacco. Schneider grimaced.

"Would you open the window? No? I can't stand you any more, man," he mumbled. "Are you going to eat something at least?"

"No," shaking my head, I looked at the street again, did't dare to ask the only question I was interested in. "And don't throw the foil away."

"Why?"

"I mean, we're not millionaires, you know?" 

"Got it, I'll iron it later. But why would't you eat something?"

I sat down on a chair with my legs, idly picking in old butts with my cigarette. The orange tip from the fire gave off a barely perceptible stream of smoke.

"Prefer Indian food."

"Are you getting at something?"

"What?"

He sighed heavily and sat down in a chair next to me. His hand confidently lay on my shoulder, poorly concealed anxiety reflected on his young face. Dim sunlight cast soft shadows, and in the wax light of a yellow lamp he looked even younger.

"What happened?"

"Listen, Christoph..."

"Don't call me by my first name," he said.

“Well,” I took out another cigarette, lit it and put in my mouse. "I have a very important question for you, which I've been thinking over for weeks."

"I will marry you," Schneider moved closer and immediately bit his lip. "Sorry, stupid joke. Keep going."

“To cut a long story short,” I squeezed the cigarette between my fingers, accidentally tearing the thin pink paper. Tobacco spilled on the table. I swore. The drummer laughed out loud, but immediately fell silent. "I want to create a band."

“But,” Christoph thoughtfully ran a fork over his plate. "You've already created one, haven't you?"

“Yea, but,” I hesitated, feeling the bitterness in my mouth. Tobacco had nothing to do with it. "This is't what I've wanted. All this American rock, these meaningless lyrics...

"And second time around it's going to be different?" asked Schneider.

"Now I know exactly what I want from the band, Schnei. Listen..."

“Yea, of course you know. But knowing you...” Schneider turned his eyes to the plate, rolling the pieces of meat from one side to the other without any interest. "...I would say that the only thing you truly want is glory. Although... maybe I'm wrong. I've heard you last week, and you were playing brightly. As always. I hope you will succeed, Richard. I'll think about your offer." Christophe nodded and left the table.

Already at the exit from the kitchen, Christoph cleared his throat and said in a hoarse voice:

"I'm going to leave Feeling B. Thought you'd like to find out about it from me, before Ollie would spill everything."

"So you will be free then?" I asked hopefully, going up to Schneider. He shook his head negatively. 

“Listen,” Schneider began, as if making excuses. “You are an excellent guitar player, and I know this, okay? But I can't agree right now. Give me a month or two to sort things out, and maybe we will talk about it later."

"Yes of course. Have your time and come up with whatever decision in a decade or so."

“This, Richard, is your main problem,” Chris smiled. "Chill out. You are so impulsive and never think about the consequences of your actions... I didn’t want to say this, Kruspe, but the band, it’s like a relationship, you know? You can't drop everything each time something goes wrong. You are almost thirty years old, it’s time to understand that it’s far from an option to open a family branch in each damn city. Relationships have to be worked on. And the band too. This is an everyday titanic work. Each group that you created consisted of different members, and only one element has always been the same. Perhaps it is time to change it?

"I understood you."

"Where are you going?" Noticing that I took the keys and put on my coat, asked Christophe.

“Wanna take a walk,” I said shortly and disappeared behind the door.

***

The sun was at its zenith. After drinking cold soda on the corner, I walked along the paper mill. In the early mornings only trucks and taxis drove by; The kebmen suspiciously looked me up and down and drove on. Not a single passer-by down the street, and only black jets of smoke above the factories gave out an ephemeral human presence. It seemed to me that I was left alone on this earth, that up the street there was not a soul to the very Berlin wall, and if I screamed with all my might, the sky would respond with a dead silence. And here I am, the child who lost the road, wandering around here and will be wandering around for another forty years in this lifeless desert. That afternoon I was overwhelmed by an amazing sense of calm and longing.

I stopped at the entrance to the park, not daring to step into the wet green of the overgrown trees. Juicy leaves, narrow gravel path to the first lamppost, and then - trampled trails of damp earth. Once I asked my mother why God hadn't create foliage as a continuous canvas, because, according to my childish worldview, it would be easier to shelter from the rain. Then, being a religious woman, she hit me on the head with a newspaper, and the next three months I spent in the local editorial office, making up for the sins and doing minor assignments: to bring coffee, buy lunch, take out the garbage. I was paid a penny, but even then they were enough for new tennis shoes. By the way, these summer shoes were the only thing that I didn't have to wear after my older brother.

My family lived well: lacquered light wood furniture, lace curtains, a kitchen-diner in the sunny kitchen. In my room in the attic, there was a bed and a tall wardrobe. I remember the cassette tape recorder and my first platters with rock music, which were brought by my father from abroad. Something from The Animals, later - Kiss. When one of the guys grew hair, we asked why the hell did he grow such a "beatles". And in the late seventies my brother bought Nintendo. After he left for Munich College, the toy was inherited by me... Strange fact: as soon as we took him to the train, I've never touched the joystick again. Only a glance at it depressed me, and very soon I gave the whole set to my sister. I could't sell Nintendo; I thought it was sacrilege.

The benches in the park were wet from the rain; I wiped the boards with a scarf and sat down. By that time, my brother and I have not seen each other for about fifteen years. Of course, we often wrote letters to each other, and yet... I did't have enough money for yellow coupons for a payphone: I've never called him first, and he, in turn, rarely remembered about me. The last time we could meet, he intended to come to my first consert with ODG, but I convinced him not to. Later, he sent me a postcard with money and best wishes. I still wonder why I so desperately didn’t want him to come and still can’t find a definite answer. You see, we were so different that the aspirations and goals of the other always seemed as a small light compared to the furious bonfire of our own dreams. And if you have ever had an older brother or sister, you should understand with what sincere adoration I looked at him, and how diligently I caught his words. I couldn't admit it until the very end, but the bitter truth was that I blessed the land on which he was walking, and the very thought of a failure in his eyes seemed to me as a collapse in my own. To some extent, he replaced my father.

During the period of my “crisis of faith” ninety-five, I was too stupid to comprehend this simple truth, and therefore avoided the society of my older brother in every way. The fate of the group and breaking the relationship with my beloved drove me crazy, my head was filled with thoughts much more real than the ghostly image of a family from childhood. I crumpled his last letter in a fit of frenzy and threw it out the window.

It was getting cold; I lifted the lapels of my coat and walked toward the house.


End file.
